To commute or not to commute…

Newly returned to work after a nice 10 and half month maternity break I’ve been looking forward to the sanity that a professional environment and work brings. Having been employed for many years I have recently taken the plunge into the unchartered waters of self-employment, both as a lawyer and a blogger.

With the mould of having to be up and out of the door well and truly broken after nearly a year off the reality of having to face the elements and the rest of world, despite being up at 6am, is not one I have cherished. Despite having conditioned myself over the previous 15 years + to get up and go to work I have been amazed at how easily I adjusted to being a lady of leisure! This became even more apparent this morning when a chilly rain descended on me as I left the house at the not-so-early hour of 7.45am!

I had been trying to get out earlier but with a whole lot of faffing and ‘just-justing’ (that is, me ‘just doing that’, ‘just doing the other’) I managed to justify to myself that as I’m now self-employed no-one was time-keeping and it really doesn’t matter what time I arrive at the office. With Mr High Heels in one ear telling me to get a wriggle on and simultaneously screeching at the toddler not to come near me with his Weetabix-covered hands, I tottered out the door clutching my brolly and what felt like a suitcase of a handbag. To be fair, it wasn’t that late, and I still managed to make it to the office for 9.10am, a reasonable time by anyone’s standards but I couldn’t have regretted my tardiness more when I arrived at the station.

With a heaving, soggy platform I edged my way towards the train, fortunately getting a seat only to realise that because it was later, this particular train didn’t go all the way into the City which meant a change at Baker Street. I couldn’t drag myself into the rain to change earlier, which may have been easier, because I didn’t want to get my hair wet (I couldn’t face being fuzzy all day)! Seriously, why does it always rain when I’ve washed my hair. So I stuck it out to Baker Street. What a mistake that was!

When the train pulled into the platform it was quite clear I wasn’t going to make it on. But I was on a mission, so I squeezed myself in to the carriage, to the dismay of my fellow travellers who would have been quite happy to block my entry had the look on my face not portrayed that of Rocky Balboa fighting Apollo Creed (in a “you’re going down” kind of way)! And there I stood. For six slow stops. Wedged. Pressed against people I would not want to be pressed against (no disrespect to anyone intended, I’m sure they didn’t want to be pressed up against me either…thank goodness I washed my hair!) for what was about 10 minutes but seemed like an eternity.

During those 10 minutes I had the opportunity to consider the following:

Thank goodness I don’t have to go into the office every day;

Leave earlier, get a direct train, get a seat all the way;

I wish I had taken Mr High Heels’ advice and prepared the night before;